


That Is The Question

by Tamuril2



Series: Walking in the Stars [8]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:58:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7530022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamuril2/pseuds/Tamuril2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Elim has plans for this, Bashir, doctor and he's not letting a thing like not eating get in the way. He's going to feed Bashir, one way or another. No slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Is The Question

**Author's Note:**

> My take on how those "lunches" in the show got started.

It takes Elim an embarrassingly long time to see it – two weeks, in fact, which is unacceptable in his line of work. He needs to be able to…ascertain…yes, ascertain is the right word. He needs to ascertain his ‘clients’ wishes before they vocalize them. What clothes are in style, which should be, what ‘special’ favors, of the illegal sort, do they want for? Those are the traits of a good tailor. But, regardless, it takes him two weeks to catch on.

Tain would be so disappointed to learn how far Elim had let his skills slip.

Perhaps, living with the humans has made him relax too much? Has he fallen into complacency? Elim represses a shiver. He dearly hopes not.

Elim catches sight of the human as the young doctor weaves his way through the laughing crowd. The man is reading a pad, probably filled with medical paraphernalia and patient files. He never notices the bumps of the passerbys, nor the uneven gait in his steps. Elim narrows his eyes. This is unacceptable.

Bashir is to be his intermediator for Starfleet.

A subtle way to sneak Intel out of the organization without anyone being the wiser, especially the doctor.

But how can Elim do that if the man refuses to take care of himself?

Point in case, three days ago a shipment filled with coughing Bajorans shoved their way onto the station. Of course, they didn’t think to tell anyone that they were unwell, so, naturally, stationers got ill too. And then Bashir was called upon to right the wrongs. Which then led to the man abstaining from all sleep and food.

Before that, it was the case of the hives. And before that, the Engineering Chief broke his arm, the fool, by playing in the holosuite with the safeties off. Which has all led to the doctor not eating enough or sleeping at all.

Ridiculous.

You’d think the doctor’s staff was inept, allowing Bashir to go for so long without rest or sustenance.   

If something didn’t change, Sisko might start thinking the doctor too young for this position and relocate him.

An…undesirable outcome.  

Elim hasn’t met a more suitable candidate for his plans.

Thus, he will have to take measures to assure said man stays.

He places a sign in his window, puts up the security alarm, and strides out of his store. People move quickly out of his way, so it takes little time for Elim to catch up to Bashir. He walks beside the man for a few moments, taking in the damage. Slumped shoulders, bags under his eyes, and his uniform starting to hang off his body. Too thin, much too thin. Did no one else notice that their doctor was slowly starving himself to death?

Humans. Elim shook his head. They missed so much by focusing on their lofty goals.

Elim clears his throat.

Wide, brown eyes jerk up to meet his own. “Garak!”

“Doctor.” Elim inclines his head.

“Is something wrong?” The human pauses and tilts his head, scanning Elim up and down.

How quaint, the man thought Elim in need to medical advice.

Having found nothing askew, Bashir gives a tired smile. “No Klingons plotting today, I hope.”

“No. no, Doctor,” Elim hurries to say, smiling in return. “I am on my way to eat and find myself wondering on your thoughts about Cardassian literature.”

“Cardassian literature?”

“Of course.” Elim widens his smile. “There can be no truer form of art than Cardassian literature.”

The human frowns at this, as Elim knew he would.

“Garak, I know Cardassia is dear to you…” Bashir’s brow furrows, he falters, but then gets a determined look in his eye. “But to think that your own literature is superior to all others is arrogant.”

“Is it now?” Elim offers, and re-starts his trek to the Replimat.

“Of course!” Bashir exclaims, rushing to his side again. “Have you even read Shakespeare or Mulderon?”

“But see? You have only included your own species in that statement.” Elim sends the human a condescending glance. “Is that not hypocritical of you? Only including Earth writings.”

Bashir splutters. “That’s not fair. I only meant to point out a few pieces you might not have read. I know many others, if you’re interested.”

Elim gets in line for the replicator and is pleased to find Bashir still at his side. “Ah, but I’ve read this Shakespeare of yours.”

He pauses deliberately.

Bashir does not disappoint. “And?”

“I found the stories to be fanciful and deluded. Obviously written by a human who put much too much faith in his own importance.”

Which is an utter lie. Elim found Hamlet to be both educational and amusing.

Bashir’s boney shoulders straighten and a fire burns in his eyes. “Deluded? How did you come to that conclusion?”

Elim places his order of Halant stew and Kanar, subtly adding in a few slices of bread and jam for the doctor. “Please, Doctor, is all too obvious.”

He picks up their order and marches over to a free table near the front.

Bashir follows without a fight, sitting down across from him. His pad clicks on the table as its set down, forgotten. “Shakespeare was a brilliant man, who saw into the depth of humanity and got into the thick of mental illnesses.”

Elim pushes the small plate of bread and jam over to Bashir. “Really? I fail to see it then. The man clearly had a fetish for drama and blood. All of his stories feature it. Take, Macbeth for example.”

“What’s wrong with Macbeth!” Bashir squeaks, biting into the bread without realizing it.

Perfect.

“I believe the better question to ask is, what’s not?” Elim takes sip of his stew. Ack. They got the salt to meat ratio wrong again. He takes another sip anyway. “Did Lord Macbeth really think no one would catch onto his murder? He barely hid it.”

“That’s because he went mad from guilt.”

“As did his wife.”

“Well, she did have the bigger share in the murder. It was her idea, after all.”

“What a pleasant coincidence. How lucky for everyone else that the main villains were so easily broken. And by themselves, no less.”

“But that’s the point, Garak!” Bashir reaches for the second slice of bread. “Shakespeare is trying to show us that power corrupts, and sooner or later your actions have consequences.”

“How noble of him,” Elim drawled, crewing on a piece of meat. “You’d never see a Cardassian falling for such weaknesses.”

Bashir blinks at him.

“My dear doctor, a Cardassian never does anything without realizing the full outcome. He leaves no option to chance, and certainly he does not bemoan a death he’s caused.”

“That’s…” Bashir swallows his bite. “Rather dark, truth be told. I didn’t know your culture had so strong a…a...Nothing has ever bothered you? Ever? You have no regrets at all?”

“Of course not.” Elim scraps up the last of his stew. “That would be foolish. The past will not change itself for me. I live my life, knowing I’ve only ever done what’s needed to be done. There is no truer form of living.”

Bashir shakes his head. “That seems rather pompous of you, assuming all your actions were the right ones.”

Elim crosses his legs. “Perhaps.”

Bashir stares at his plate for a moment. “I think you might like Dickens.”

“Oh?”

“Right up your alley.” Bashir smirks. “Tale of Two Cites should do it….have you ever read Dickens before?”

“No.” And it’s the truth, for once. He leans forward. “And I shall endeavor to enlighten you on true art. Romok’s essay on the Hidden Features of the Mind, should interest you.”

Bashir grins at him. “All right then. Where shall I drop it off? Your office?”

“How about here, at noon tomorrow?” Elim stands, and Bashir follows with a yawn. The human blushes and rubs the back of his head.

“Sorry about that.” Bashir rolls his shoulders. “Well, I see you tomorrow then, Garak.”

“Indeed, Doctor.”

Elim watches the human walk back to sickbay. A smirk crosses his lips as he too heads back to his store. The human body is such a predictable thing. The small amount of food Bashir ate will entice him to sleep, which will then be indulged, as will more consumption of food. And if the man does not eat, there’s always tomorrow. He’ll order some Halant stew for the man. Say it is a cultural thing.

That always gets them.


End file.
